


If I Should Stumble

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-13
Updated: 2007-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean learns to let go of the steering wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Should Stumble

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Written for [](http://destina.livejournal.com/profile)[**destina**](http://destina.livejournal.com/) 's birthday. Partly based on [this legend](http://rwarn17588.wordpress.com/2006/08/30/is-the-tri-county-truck-stop-haunted/) and set between "Provenance" and "Dead Man's Blood." Once again [](http://angelstart.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstart**](http://angelstart.livejournal.com/) 's [season one timeline](http://angelstart.livejournal.com/67674.html?style=mine) saves the day. Title is from Billy Idol. Thanks to [](http://janissa11.livejournal.com/profile)[**janissa11**](http://janissa11.livejournal.com/) for her graceful beta-reading and comma-wrangling skills.

"Run," Dean tells them.

The guy puts his hand protectively over the baby nestled at his chest in a snuggli carrier, while the woman's eyes go to the shotgun in his hands. Their expressions turn to alarm and they turn and hurry back to their car, a shiny new Honda Civic. If they think he's a freak, that's fine; better they think he's a freak than stick around for what's coming.

It's a little past sunset, the sky dark above but still burning red low over the highway, and the rest stop hasn't been a rest stop for about ten years, yet travelers keep pulling in for a burger and gas. If it happens to be October 13, they often die for their trouble.

High time that stopped happening.

As the Civic pulls out, the headlights sweep around and catch the dingy yellow bricks on the front of the curved building, then pass over Dean before the couple drives away very fast. The many windows of the truck stop are dirty, some boarded up, some broken. A big sign along the front offers "Air Conditioning" like no one's ever heard of it before. The place itself is a ghost, already retro even when it was still in operation.

There's a shotgun blast from around the other side, but Dean can't stop to worry about Sam and the ghost of Billy Watson because the ghost of Harry Watson is rushing at him as if the headlights have conjured him. Sam's research dug up all kinds of nasty shit about these boys in life, and in death they're even worse.

Dean side-steps as Harry's lead pipe swoops down, and it _clangs_ as it hits a rusted oil barrel instead of him; never mind that the pipe should be transparent, glowing like Harry in the desert night, before it comes down. The pipe, like the chain that brother Billy used on those unlucky enough to think that the rest stop was still open for business, is solid and real. Sam says their spirits bonded to something solid. There are no remains to burn because they've already been burned; the Watson family had Harry and Billy cremated eight years ago, but it didn't do anything to stop the haunting.

Solid like a lead pipe, whistling over Dean's head as he ducks. He comes up fast, fires, and Harry's gangly, bearded form disperses, while Dean starts to jog around the building. "Sam?"

"Over here."

They meet at the front of the curve, and Dean wonders for the third time that day how Sam can see anything with those bangs hanging over his eyes like that.

Dean signals, circling his finger in the air, for Sam to take another pass around the building while he goes the other way. They've got to get the pipe and chain away from Harry and Billy, which means they can't keep shooting them up with rock salt, because no matter how solid the weapons are, they keep dispersing with the spirits. It's like some stupid shoot-em-up horror arcade game, the kind where he and Sam always used to grab the top scores everywhere they played them (Dean's was almost always just a little higher than Sam's except for that one time in Kississimee, but he'd been getting over a cold and his focus was off). Or a demented version of Clue; it was the brothers Watson, at the truck stop, with the lead pipe and the chain.

He watches as Sam runs off into the shadows, then turns and starts around the other way, where cement steps with a rusted railing lead up to a door, the CLOSED sign now eternal.

Harry pops up out of the shadows, and Dean tosses the shotgun right at him, because ghosts might not be corporeal but some of 'em remember what it was like being solid. Sure enough, Harry steps back on instinct, off-guard, and Dean's hands close over the pipe. They wrangle for it, and it would be over fast if this was a bar fight with a flesh-and-blood jackass instead of a dead one, but there's nothing here for Dean to kick or punch, although Harry's boot in his stomach sure does hurt like fuck. None of that would be problematic except Billy isn't where he expected Billy to be, going after Sam. He's right behind Dean, and he only figures it out when the chain slams into his side.

He goes down to his knees, still gripping the pipe. It might be best to let go and grab the shotgun, but then the pipe's sure to come down, probably on his head, and meanwhile he still has to dodge the chain. Which doesn't go well since his ribs hurt so bad he almost whimpers out loud. He wonders what Dad would do.

There's another shotgun blast and Dean finds himself gripping nothingness as Harry disperses. Another shot and Billy's gone too. Dean feels Sam's free arm go across his back, fingers a firm grip on his shoulder. Dean remember to take his fallen shotgun as Sam pulls him up. The Impala's just a half-dozen yards away. He sets the gun on the roof, holds on to the handle of the driver's-side door, and fumbles in his jacket pocket for the keys while Sam's arm stays steady against him.

It's when Dean tries to open said door that his ribs remind him what's what, and a short shout of pain gets out of him before he can control it. He puts both hands on the car, the keys in his palm, and he doesn't even care if it scratches the paint.

Fuck, it hurts to breathe. Cracked, probably, not just bruised. _Shit._

Sam's prying the keys out of his grip and Dean mumbles a protest but Sam's moving him around the car. The passenger door creaks and Sam settles him onto the bench. Then the door slams shut.

"Don't forget about the gun!" Dean says, a split second after Sam actually snatches Dean's gun off the roof of the car.

After rummaging around in one of the duffels in the back seat, Sam says, "Stay put, okay?"

He concentrates on _breathing_ , each intake an agony, his mind running through options. They maybe can leave it tonight, return in exactly one year, but there's no guarantee they could get back right on the day. Forget the odds of anyone else pulling in on October 13th; it has nothing to do with odds. The spot pulls people in like some kind of black hole of bad spirit mojo. Some places are like that, storing up energy and anger and resentment and hunger. Fifteen dead before Billy and Harry Watson were shot by state troopers in the parking lot in '97. Half a dozen killed, two injured, in the ten years since.

"We gotta --" Dean starts but Sam is already slipping out of the car again, shotgun in one hand and a box of rock salt in the other.

He watches Sam shake the box as he walks in a wide circle around the Impala. "No. No way." Dean fumbled for the handle and pushes the door open. "Sam, you can't take them by yourself."

"Back in the car, Dean." When Dean doesn't comply, Sam pushes the door but Dean pushes at it from the other side as a cold sweat breaks out along his forehead; again he's forgotten that _moving_ (or talking, or breathing) isn't really at all fun right now.

They keep at this tug-of-war for about twenty seconds before Sam finally says frantically, "They'll only stay dispersed for so _long_ ," and looks more pissy than Dean's seen him look for weeks, his jaw jutting out.

Dean lets go of the door, not because Sam looks ready to strangle him, but because it hurts too much to keep this up. The door slams and Sam wins by forfeit. Sam takes the box of salt and the shotgun and walks back towards the empty restaurant, the quick, angry stride pinging an echo, like deja vu. Dean realizes it's Dad's walk.

"Stubborn son of a bitch," Dean mutters. He reaches around to grab his shotgun out of the back -- Sam can't stop him from opening the door and getting out now -- but the words twist into a strangled sound and he drops back into his seat. Dean closes his eyes and presses his hands against the dashboard. He opens his eyes real quick again though, to track where Sam is and what he's doing.

He's putting the shotgun down on the ground, then stands holding the box of rock salt, both arms out. "Hey, Beavis and Butt-head!" Sam shouts. "You want a piece of me?

Dean puts his palm to his face, then grits his teeth, reaches back and grabs his shotgun, ignoring the fire in his side. Ribs or no ribs, he has to keep Sam from getting himself killed. He opens the passenger door and staggers out.

Billy and Harry have taken Sam's call-out. They materialize, glowing faintly against the trees at the edge of the lot, advancing on Sam. Dean raises his shotgun.

When they get close enough, Harry raises the pipe to deliver a blow as Billy starts to swing the chain. Before Dean can fire, Sam's arm jerks, and a cloud of salt hits Billy in the face. The ghost howls and vanishes, and it's enough to distract Harry, giving Sam a chance to grab the pipe with one hand as Harry tries to deliver a blow too late. Before Harry can attack Sam with his fists or feet, Sam flicks the box of salt around and the white grains fly out, pale in the darkness, falling over the ghost like snowflakes. Sam keeps his grip on the pipe and when Harry disperses, Sam's still holding it.

"Give it to me," Dean says, making his way over to him, stepping outside the protective salt circle.

Sam hands it over without comment, but he _looks_ , and Dean reluctantly withdraws behind the salt line.

Billy rematerializes and Dean keeps the shotgun trained on him. The chain whips around and Sam ducks, then reaches up quick and grabs it. Dean fires, dispersing Billy.

Sam stands in the parking lot that seems to hold its breath with new stillness, the chain dangling from one hand, the box of salt in the other. He kneels for the shotgun and returns to the Impala, tossing the chain into the back seat.

The stars make Dean think of salt scattered on black cloth as he lets himself settle back onto the bench, wondering how it would go if he insisted on driving.

Dean decides the argument isn't worth it.

  


* * *

They break into a foundry. Burning the metal worked for the Hook Man, should work for these dipshits. Hopefully they have the right objects the first time around.

Actually, Sam breaks into the foundry while Dean waits in the car, feeling like an idiot.

He'd reeled off instructions until finally Sam had rolled his eyes. "I _know_ how to pick a lock, Dean."

Dean waits.

More than just his ribs ache now, sympathetic pain radiating around his body, but he should follow Sam in anyway, what if he gets caught, what if...Dean leans his head against the cool glass of the Impala's window as a sharp jab of pain makes his breath catch.

It's nearly dawn by the glow of his watch and he only means to close his eyes a moment, but when he opens them again the Impala's in motion, the engine a soothing rumble he feels up from his feet and into his chest. The sky's a feeble light gray and Sam's driving.

"It's done?" Dean says, still leaning his head against the Impala's window. Pain's bearable in the position he's in; he's not looking forward to returning to the motel and the rib wrapping process to follow.

"It's done."

They'll try to come back in a year to make sure. Dean wonders what they might have forgotten, some detail in the legends, a loophole they might have missed.

He glances over at Sam, who has both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road ahead.

Maybe there's nothing left to do after all.

Dean finally lets go, lets the throb of pain wash over him until it merges with the background hum of the engine, and drifts into sleep.

~end  



End file.
